The Wages Of Love
by AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: When Holmes' behaviour becomes more peculiar than usual, his seemingly callous actions prompt Watson to question their very friendship. But there is method to his madness, and Watson is about to find himself entangled in a dangerous affair. Non slash.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** So... its been a while but I thought it was time I stopped neglecting my poor account._

_This fic is technically a WIP, but it is nearly complete. Just one pesky part left and I hoped that posting would get a fire under me to finish the thing once and for all. As I mentioned in the summary, this is neither slash (nor het, for that matter) despite the dubious title. Please enjoy & comments are most welcome... and tend to spur my muse on. *grin* Should be updating with the next part within the next few days._

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Having just partaken of a particularly hearty breakfast of rashers, toast and coffee, I drew up the chair at my writing desk, intent on taking advantage of Holmes' absence from our flat to make some much needed advancements on the most recent narrative I was penning for the _Strand_. My deadline fast approaching, I was grateful for _any_ opportunity to escape the relentless hail of castigations aimed at my poor scribblings; verbal beratings that had, of late, assailed me mercilessly should my eyes so much as wander to the general vicinity of my writing desk.

Retaining ones sanity was no little accomplishment when living under the same roof as one unemployed, world-weary consulting detective. I prided myself that I'd not yet been tossed into an asylum for all I put up with on a daily basis. One of my greatest accomplishments, in fact.

So it was that when I came down to breakfast one unseasonably warm day in late March, I found a hastily scribbled note explaining that he'd a telegram from Mycroft at the crack of dawn. Seeing as my Holmes had been summoned to Whitehall and expected to be away for some hours, I took it as a double blessing. Obviously, it was official business rather than a social call, for setting aside the fact the other Holmes had no use for anything so petty as that, were this only an excuse to have a tête-à-tête with Sherlock, he'd have been sent to the Diogenes or his Pall Mall lodgings. And surely at a more reasonable hour. No, it was a case, and if Mycroft's past dealings in such matters were any indication, it was one of great import, at that. Therefore, the morocco case would be free to collect dust while I might have the chance to complete my account in relative peace.

I passed the remainder of the morning and a fair bit of early afternoon immersed in my work, the words flowing out of me as though the very foolscap were enchanted. To claim that I produced some of my best material was no exaggeration. Consequently, I was in a bit of a jovial mood as I rubbed my hands together and once more took up my pen after a brief pause to allow relief of a writer's cramp.

No sooner had I dipped my pen into the open bottle of ink, was I interrupted by a gentle tapping upon the sitting room door.

"Dr. Watson?" inquired Mrs. Hudson as she peeked inside.

"Hmmm?"

"A visitor for you -- he claims to be an old acquaintance."

"By all means, send him up," said I, distractedly. While I must admit to being more interested in polishing up my manuscript, I _was_ curious as to who should care to pay me a visit, seeing as I had no close associations from my past _or_ present, with the single exception of Holmes.

Not bothering to turn at the sound of the door creaking closed, it was then an utter shock to hear that well remembered thick Scottish burr.

"John Hamish Watson?"

"_Can it truly be _… Alastair Rawlings?" I cried, rising to take his hand. The burly, flaxen haired fellow before me wrung my own hand enthusiastically in return, patting me on the back, his eyes alight with mirth. He wore a modest grey tweed suit that complimented his dashing figure and ruddy complexion. For all appearances, Rawlings was as handsome now as he was in our bygone University days, still embodying that rare combination of brilliance and eye-catching good looks. I could not help but notice just how _much_ he resembled even now, that strapping youth etched in my mind's eye, the athletic Lothario who was the envy of every girl in town -- and the bane of our fellow male schoolmates.

We both shared an affinity for Rugby, which was the root of our quickly struck yet rather short lived camaraderie. For a short time we'd even found ourselves teammates playing for Blackheath until I left for London to obtain my medical degree. This was, however, the extent of our relations, so suffice it to say even though I was delighted to see old Rawlings again, I confess to being somewhat bewildered as to why he'd care to call on me after so many years.

"You haven't changed a whit!" Alastair lied mightily as he backed up to take in the sorry sight I must have presented to a man who retained the hale form of his youth.

"Surely you exaggerate! I'm not entirely sure how kind the years have been to me, but you seem well. Whatever have you been up to all these years?"

"Oh, nothing noteworthy," said he with a shrug. "My life is as mundane and dull as can possibly be expected with my line of work; that is, I inherited the family vocation, if you will. I am a… banker in Surrey, but seeing as I have business down in Kensington to-day, it struck me that my old friend Watson was residing here in London, and would it not be congenial of me to pay him a visit."

"Well, I certainly am glad to see you!" I offered Rawlings a brandy, though he declined, stating that due to a hectic schedule, he was only able to stay but a few moments.

"I hear," said Rawlings, who had leaned back on the settee, legs crossed and arms folded behind his head, "that you've made something of a name for yourself, assisting the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

I sunk down into my armchair, suppressing the urge to bite down on my tongue, my bright mood dimming. A natural curiosity about my distinguished friend was only to be expected, but I dreaded this line of inquiry to my core, for in my experience, it was naught but a precursor to that inevitable question. _Did I do the thing to gain notoriety for myself, to ride on the coattails of someone far greater? _Oh, mind you, they were never quite so blunt, but the undertone was there, regardless of how tactfully they worded it. I suppose I'd no one to blame but myself for publishing our adventures in the first place, but I would not take back the _rightful _recognition they gained for Holmes for all the presumptuous queries in the world.

"Well," I willed my voice into neutrality, "Holmes has been kind enough in allowing me to offer what service I can. If my name has become well known as a consequence, so be it, but I'd rather the entirety of credit go where it is due."

"I see, I see. You _are _quite loyal to him." There was, for a fleeting instant, an unreadable gleam in his eye. "Yes," said he, sitting forward with hands clasped between his knees, "though from your tales, he does not strike one as being inclined to take up the confidences of just anyone. You must indeed be a rare friend to him."

"I suppose…" I trailed off, fumbling with my words.

The thought was never destined to be completed, for at that very instant, the sitting room door swung open with such excessive force the coat rack nearly toppled over, and I feared we'd have our share of explaining to do when Mrs. Hudson came across the cracked indentation I was positive the knob had left in our wall.

"WATSON!" My friend bounded into the room as though all the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. He came to a grinding halt, narrowly avoiding toppling into the fireplace in his fervor.

Holmes braced his sinewy fingers around the mantle before turning to where I sat, dumbfounded, mouth agape, at the profound state of dishevelment so contrary to his habitual neatly groomed appearance.

His face was flushed, strands of sweat soaked hair clinging to his brow. Unthinkable as it was, his collar was undone, and somewhere along the way (for I did my own deducing based on the way he was gasping for a full breath of air like some asthmatic and came to the conclusion Holmes had been running some distance) his waistcoat was discarded, so that he wore no more than an un-tucked shirt and braces.

I sprang up out of my chair and was at his side in the span of a breath. He was leaning over the mantle, did not so much as steal a glance out of the corner of his eye; but he gripped my wrist with a crushing strength and suspired.

"Ah, Watson, _you're here_. _Thank heavens_."

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**_To be continued…_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **__Thanks for the response to this little fic so far! I planned to have this part up sooner, but it demanded more re-writing than I originally thought. Hope to have the next chapter up sooner, if the muse cooperates._

___FYI, according to w a l k i t . c o m , the distance from the Parliament Street end of Whitehall to Baker Street would be 2.3 miles, and if running quickly the journey could be made in approx. 35 minutes… I live in the US so am crossing my fingers this is accurate, lol. _

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Everything from his trembling limbs to his uneven breathing gave me the impression that Holmes was on the verge of fainting from the mere effort of standing in place. Swallowing my own unprofessional panic, I guided my friend into a chair, more than a little disconcerted by how his legs practically collapsed from under him as I did so. Though he halfheartedly swatted me away, I managed to wipe away with my handkerchief the beads of perspiration trickling into his eyes, and check his pulse, which raced violently. That any protestations to my medical proddings were so feeble was of greater concern than his disarranged condition.

"If I knew no better, I should swear you've had an awful fright."

"_Oh, but I have…"_

"What was that, old fellow?"

"Eh, it's of no significance. I have only taken far more exercise than befits a middle aged gentleman."

"What do you mean by that," I prodded, my trepidations now thoroughly aroused.

"Only that it was a bit warm to make the dash from Whitehall."

"You ran all the way here from Whitehall? What on earth would possess you to -- Heavens! Tell me you're not in any danger!"

"Oh no, nothing so petty as that," said he with an unenthused chuckle. It may very well have been my dense nature hindering my sense of humour, but I failed to detect _any_ trace of amusement in the situation.

"This is far worse, my boy… far worse. This involves -- oh, never mind, you needn't worry. Rest assured, it is a minor complication that I have under control now," he continued, lustrous grey eyes drooping under heavy lids as he eased back in his chair, for all intents and purposes ready to surrender to rest. Until Rawlings, who had silently stepped up beside me out of concern for my friend, cleared his throat and stirred Holmes from his repose.

It was then the strangest reaction seized him.

He bolted upright, lips curled into a snarl, nails digging into the pliant leather arms of the chair. For no apparent reason, he was glaring intently at old Rawlings, who, in his ignorance of my companion's mercurial temperament, now greeted him with an outstretched hand and a gracious smile.

"Good day, sir. You must be the estimable Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself! I simply cannot express what a pleasure it is to finally meet you."

"What is _this_?" Holmes fairly bellowed.

"This," said I, whilst simultaneously attempting to calm him with a soothing hand on his shoulder, "is my old mate from University, Alistair Rawlings."

Not knowing what to make of his queer mood, I prepared myself for any number of reactions to this seemingly harmless introduction, so that I stood just close enough to Rawlings that he'd risk grazing me should he decide to become physical with the poor chap. As unpredictable as Holmes could be, not even in his worst fits of melancholia or forays into other indiscretions, did he ever lay a finger on me with intent to harm. In that, I trusted him implicitly.

"_Is he really?" _Holmes practically sang in a syrupy sweet intonation.

"Quite right, Mr. Holmes," said Rawlings with one arm crooked behind his back, the other still outstretched in a more amiable gesture than my friend deserved at the present moment. "As a matter of fact, _my_ friend Watson here --"

I cannot rightly say what the sound that emanated from Holmes' throat actually was, but if a man is indeed capable of growling, then I suppose that is as apt a description as any.

"Well," Rawlings retracted his hand, backing up just a step (there's an astute fellow) and went on, though I detected just a hint of uncertainty in his manner now. "Old Watson here played center for the Blackheath Rugby team whilst I was three-quarter. There were few finer athletes than he, if I may say so."

Shifting over towards the mantle, Holmes reached out for his pipe rack, taking pains not to peel his eyes from my schoolmate in the process. I nearly groaned aloud when I saw the pipe he was now lighting with the coal tongs was of the baneful cherry-wood variety. An already unpredictable circumstance, I realized, was destined only to deteriorate from here.

"Actually, Watson," he turned on his heel to face me, "our old Rugby ties were what first recalled you to my mind today. You see, there is to be held a charity Rugby match back in Surrey on this coming Saturday, the 27th, but we seem to have run into a setback."

"What a pity."

Ignoring Holmes' boorish interruption, Rawlings went on to state that he was set to be three-quarter for the team, when only the previous day he suffered a most unfortunate accident while descending the stairs outside his home in the aftermaths of a rainstorm. He'd slipped and fell in such a way that the brunt of his weight landed on his right ankle, which was now sprained and too sore for him to possibly fulfill his obligations to the team. Furthermore, he was quite adamant that I was the very man to fill the position, and would I come down to Surrey with him on the morrow to take his place in the game?

Agreeable as I was to his proposition, I was not so young or fit as I once was, and with a leg and shoulder that still ached with a vengeance in inclement weather, submitting myself to the physical rigors of Rugby was not foremost on my agenda.

I was ready to cordially decline the offer when Holmes slammed his pipe upon the mantle with some force. "I shall have none of it! Under absolutely no conditions would I everallow Watson to take part in such an asinine endeavor!"

"I hardly think this is your decision to make," I snapped back, very much let down and abashed by his impertinence in the presence of polite company, no less. I was, however, still prepared to make my excuses for not being able to play, and be done with the matter. But Holmes would not let the issue rest.

"My dear fellow, I am only concerned with sparing you the inevitable shame sure to proceed such a ludicrous endeavor. You are a wounded veteran, and what is more, barely manage to hobble along behind me during our leisurely afternoon outings."

"Holmes!" I snarled, "you make it sound as though I'm a worthless cripple."

"Well, well; what good can come of sidestepping around the facts? You are quite lame with that leg, I'm afraid. And the left shoulder. _Tsk tsk_. Can barely pick up _The Times _when it rains, is that not so, doctor? Soon enough you shall be of no use to me in these little endeavors of ours, so I do wish you would take care not to speed up the process until such time when I can find a sufficient replacement."

I have tolerated many verbal lashings from my friend over the years, well deserved or otherwise, but I never imagined him capable of spouting such forked-tongued venom. Fever rose up in me. I was straining to maintain some semblance of calm on the surface as my blood boiled within.

"I am going to ignore this, if for nothing else than the sake of our friendship. Apparently, you have been overindulging in your favourite vice again, so far be it from me to attempt civil conversation with a habitué of injectable poison."

And then it happened.

By this point, I'd turned my back on Holmes to lead poor old Rawlings out the door and far away from this madness. I handed him the hat he had left on our settee, profusely apologizing for my companion's completely unjustifiable erratic behavior.

"As for that Rugby match, I --" _appreciate the offer, but regretfully must decline … _

My intentions were to complete my sentence thus, yet I was interrupted by the sharp clatter of shattering glass behind me. I flinched, almost afraid of what I should find. Rightfully so, too, as I was soon to learn.

Sherlock Holmes hovered over my writing desk, a self-satisfied expression plastered on his sharp featured face. The porcelain white fingertips of his right hand were blotched with ink stains, and from there my eyes traced down to the overturned ink bottle, the mouth of which was broken into slivers. Black ink seeped freely onto the pages of foolscap I had spread out to dry -- close to two months of work -- all ruined.

"There now, that settles the thing. You cannot go when you have a deadline awaiting and such a mess to clean."

By Jove. My friend, my _dearest_ friend, did not do this wretched thing! He could not have. Was simply not capable of being so eminently cruel. It was an accident -- it _had_ to be!

However, there was no remorse in him, no apologies offered, only that blasted smug look about him as he stood there so cooly -- that, heaven forgive me for saying so -- I fancied to strike off his face. I am not a man to buckle under my temper, though when it burns through me with such heat as it did that afternoon, even I am leery of myself. Within me was a torrent of penned up emotion that had bided its time under a tenuous exterior, compiling higher with each sardonic jibe aimed in my direction, every insult aimed at the writing he had now go to lengths to destroy.

Regrettable as it is to admit, my anger raged and collapsed the restraining dam which I'd never previously realized lurked within. I suspect it was as much a revelation to myself as it was to Holmes, who actually appeared to turn ashen as I informed him just where he could go, and what he might do when he arrived there.

Oh, the terrible things I said to him, the insinuations I made that, to this day, fill me with sickness. What piece of my soul would I not willingly offer to erase those words, to have not told him how I once thought he was incapable of caring but now knew the extent of my error. His heart, I accused, was so ice-chilled from apathy there was nothing that could thaw that frozen wilderness.

"And as for that Rugby match," I tried, in vain I think, to quell the mortification fast superseding my anger even as I spat out the words, "thank you, Rawlings, for considering me. I shall be glad to oblige."

Rawlings, who was understandably flustered by my shameful display, took a moment before responding, but when he did, the mirth of old had crept back into his mien.

"Excellent, old boy! What a relief to hear that Blackheath's finest center will once again be gracing the field! Now," he glanced at this pocket watch, "as I mentioned, I do have quite the busy day ahead, but if you can meet me at Waterloo tomorrow at 9 o'clock sharp, we can take the 9:15 train and be in Surrey in time for a late lunch."

I ushered Alistair Rawlings out the front door, more out of some urgent requirement to remove myself from the immediate vicinity of my fellow lodger than out of any concern for mannerly conduct. For some moments, I stood against the door, steadying heaving chest before ascending the seventeen steps to our rooms.

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Upon re-entering, Holmes was standing at the window, puffing out noxious rings of blue-grey tobacco. He did not even appear to notice he was no longer alone in the room until I went for my coat and hat.

"Watson, where in blazes are you off to?"

"Do not concern yourself about where I go or whether I bother to return. I dare say you can manage without me or my inferior assistance."

I was horrified when he gave one of his silent laughs, and if my vexation hadn't been clouding my judgment, I might well be concerned over the cause of his outrageous behavior to-day.

"Come now, you're not serious about leaving. Put down your accoutrements and allow me to explain."

"I'm overjoyed to have provided you with so much amusement, but I've had my fill for one day. Good-bye, Holmes."

"You mustn't go, Watson, wait!"

Without looking back, I slammed the door on him. He called out to me from the landing, flew down the stairs and was still shouting to me, from the street this time, when I jumped into the nearest cab.

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_**To Be Continued...**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **Just want to say the__ response to this story has been awesome & I am thrilled you're all enjoying it so far. I hope the rest does not disappoint._

_This chapter is slightly shorter than the first two but I hope to make up for that and the evil cliff-hanger with another update very soon. Think good thoughts at my Muse, who seems to be willing to let me wrap up the ending (finally!) _

_Thank you in bunches to Jaelijn, who provided me with the accurate German translations!_

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I am ashamed to admit that when we'd driven only so far as half way up the Marylebone Road, my nerves failed me, and I had the cabbie turn back to leave me off in Regents Park. There was no sign of Holmes as the hansom reversed its path, yet whether I saw neither hide nor hair of him now, I was certain he had endeavoured to trail me. Such were the extent of his abilities to make a chameleon of himself that he might very well be standing at my shoulder and I'd not recognize him if that was not his intent. If he persisted to hound me at this juncture, I could not rightly say.

All the afternoon I meandered through the park, vacillating between condescending to spend the night in some hotel or swallowing the last remnants of my pride and returning to Baker Street. So be it if I come off as a hopeless fool, but despite my chastising of Holmes' puerile, hurtful behaviour having been well deserved, I found that I'd already forgiven him. His motives -- confound the taciturn fellow! -- were oft cryptic to me, but perhaps I was too slow witted to see what, in his keen mind, should have been clear. Instead, it was all smoke and fog in my eyes, blinding me.

And I have never felt so thoroughly stupid as I did that lovely spring day.

For me, there was no interest in the sweet warm breeze caressing my face nor of the budding indications of spring. My heart was weighed down by I knew not what; in effect, the sunshine was dreary, food was tasteless, and the merry laughter of children chasing each other in a game of tag wrenched me dry of all but a lingering sadness.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon and the breeze picked up a slight chill, I was utterly foot-sore and had wallowed so long in my self pity that it waned only due to sheer exhaustion. And I came to the realization that the need to see my friend again far outweighed any desire to be angry with the fellow.

Our rooms were bereft of light, which was not so unusual an occurrence if Holmes was in a particularly contemplative mood and lost sight of all else but the problem at hand. Be that as it may, a quick search revealed he was indeed gone, so I set to my packing. Strangely enough, when I turned up the gas in my bedroom, I found my valise already wide open upon my bed. To my even greater astonishment, my things were neatly packed, including my old green and white Rugby uniform, which he had laid at the top. A terse note in his hieroglyphic scrawl was ceremoniously splayed atop said uniform.

_My dear Watson, (it read)_

_If you insist on going, at least be prepared. _

_Investigating Mycroft's case. Will be with you at earliest possible opportunity._

_ -- S.H._

Sherlock Holmes had _packed my luggage_, for heaven's sake, departing with the most enigmatical of messages that conveniently made not the slightest acknowledgement of what had occurred betwixt us earlier. When I retired to bed, my head was awhirl with a confusion that had entirely surpassed any lingering remnants of anger, and the words that sounded over and over again in my brain, like the monotonous beats of a drum, made more sense than the reality I'd been thrust into to-day.

_Curiouser and curiouser …_

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Rawlings was waiting on the platform early the next morning, and fairly beamed when he caught sight of me. He was in the company of a younger man of fair complexion with close cropped hair equally light as his own, a mere boy who I'd not take for being older than one-and-twenty. He was a chap of about average height but of Herculean build, and Rawlings, for all his athletic physique, looked thin as a rail beside him. Silently, I beseeched Providence that he'd not be one of the players I chanced to find myself up against during tomorrow's match, for genial as it promised to be, men such as that were forces to be reckoned with.

My old schoolmate introduced me to the brawny lad as one Viktor Rawlings, a nephew of his, as we weaved our way through the pedestrian traffic. The boy offered me an amiable smile, but seemed almost guarded in his manner, watching me intently from the corner of his eye, and responding to my queries only in monosyllables with a barely discernable German accent.

We had only just settled into a private carriage when the lad promptly locked the door and drew the curtains. After surveying me with a rather unnerving glance with those icy blue eyes, he elbowed his uncle and whispered in German.

_"Glaubst du, dass er gewarnt wurde?"***1 **_His statement was completed with a nod in my direction I did not at all care for.

Whatever was said was practically inaudible as it was, with the added disadvantage of being spoken in a language incomprehensible to my ears, but Viktor was obviously studying my features for any outward signs of my perception.

"_Nein," _Rawlings laughed heartily, patting his nephew on the knee for reassurance of his point. _"Der Doktor ist zu einfältig, um ein solches Wissen zu verbergen." ***2**_

This seemed to induce a faint smile in the other, who reclined back and folded his arms over his chest, eyes tightly shut, yet somehow I felt them boring straight through me.

"Pardon our rudeness, Doctor, but my nephew's mother is a German and he spent a substantial amount of his childhood in her country. His mastery of the English language is somewhat feeble, so he does feel more comfortable conversing with me in his native tongue. He was only inquiring if you were an avid Rugby player, as he notices you have a slight stiffness to your gait."

"Yes, an old war injury, but nothing debilitating, I assure you."

The explanation of the nephew's discourteousness was a perfectly logical one, yet I could not quell the spark of uneasiness the incident ignited. I did make an effort to brush these intrusive thoughts aside, determined I should not allow myself to relay suspicion on every out of the ordinary event, as was the wont of my paranoid friend. Though, for the remainder of our journey, I was unable to focus my full attention upon my paper, my thoughts wandering back to the German nephew's reaction to me.

So it was that when we reached our destination I could not help but feel something was amiss, and my suspicions were furthered when I noticed my old school chum fold his own newspaper on his lap, drawing my eyes to the knees of his trousers. They were frayed and blotted with old stains.

I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

There was no convincing me this was befitting for even the casual attire of a gentleman banker, but the implications of my observations were at best obscure and vague.

With the seed of doubt taking root in my mind, even the most miniscule gesture took on a greater significance. Perhaps, this was the reason why I noticed what I may not otherwise have looked for, as we stepped off the train into Farnham Station. As I was bending to pick up my luggage, Rawlings and his nephew came up to me, and for a man who had claimed a badly sprained ankle, there were no obvious indications of an injury.

Holmes had the right idea all along. I _was_ obtuse.

"You are not limping," I remarked with a casual smile.

"And you are not as feeble minded as I supposed, although it _did_ take you long enough to come to that realization. As to what your friend sees in you, I confess to be utterly at a loss."

I had stooped to lift the handle of my valise when the unmistakable clicking of a revolver sounded from inside the German's coat pocket.

"Step right this way, Dr. Watson," Rawlings drawled with affected pleasantness as he took my arm, wrenching my bad shoulder in the process, severely enough that I bit my lip to restrain myself from crying out. I was led into a waiting dog cart, where I was blindfolded with my own cravat once we turned off the main road.

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_**To Be Continued...**_

_***1 **"Do you think he has been warned?"_

_***2** "No. The Doctor is too simpleminded to hide such knowledge."_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** Dear me, I am very late in posting this, aren't I? *grins sheepishly* _

_Had meant to get it up over the weekend but real life, a massive head cold, and me being disgusted with this and re-writing half of it sort of delayed my posting. Hope it is worth the wait…_

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"I assure you the greatest pains have been taken to ensure our continued success. The payoff, and on this you have my word, shall be _well _worth the transitory nuisances. Now, do stop getting yourself worked up into a dither over the thing and make an attempt to enjoy the scenery. Surrey _is _quite scenic this time of year -- would you not agree, Doctor?" Rawlings sniggered, jabbing me in the ribs with the revolver to emphasize his amusement.

The two had been engaged in a heated conversation practically from the moment we set off, and despite the row having been vocalized in German, I am undeniably the subject of discussion. I am not so dull that I cannot recognize my own name coated over by the foreign pronunciation, though there is little else I'm able to decipher. Were Holmes in my stead, even a language exotic to his ears held no secrets that his resourceful brain could not interpret. He'd judge our location down to the specific coordinates by the sound of the horse's canter; or by something equally trivial yet supremely monumental. That he had foreseen considerable danger was explicitly clear to me now. To him, this was all translucent as a pane of glass, but I fear my weaker brain could not even begin to grasp the most simplistic elements of the motive driving an old University chum to lure me into the countryside with a loaded revolver pressed into my side.

"This is no laughing matter!" Viktor cried, likely abusing a newspaper against the seat from the sound of all the rustling and banging. As he spoke again, he tossed it down to the floor. "Should but the slightest detail slip out of place, _Gott im Himmel_, it's twenty years hard labor in Dartmoor for us!"

"Must we go over this again? Really, it does become tedious, my dear sir. My preparations are sound, and once we put that meddling dog, Sherlock Holmes out of his misery, it will be smooth sailing for us."

"But what if this fails to lure Holmes into our nets? What _then_?"

"Jove, man, I've had enough of your skepticism!" Beside me, I felt the brush of air as Rawlings stood upright, relocating his weapon to the crown of my skull in the process. "Everything has gone off flawlessly_, _and without your valuable assistance, might I add. If I managed to swipe this from under Holmes' very substantial nose…" A pause, wherein the low but definite chinking of some sort of glass tapping against each other rang out. "I believe I am capable of handling this. So keep shut and do what you're told or this bullet shall have _your _name writ on it."

For a single second, Rawlings aimed the revolver away from me -- and this I can only assume -- pointed it at the 'nephew' sitting across from him. It was all the advantage I required.

Unobtrusively, I slipped my foot around his ankle before giving it a swift yank backwards, sending him crashing down with a slew of curses. The dog cart bounded on with greater haste, it's driver obviously another confederate.

My hands having been left unbound, I'd the blindfold off and was struggling against the substantial German before the other had done so much as hit the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glint of sun reflecting off the polished butt of the revolver, and, with a strategically placed knee to the groin, had the other man doubled over as I dove for the gun.

The very tips of my fingers touched steel when an intense sharp pain bore down on the back of my neck. Whatever it was had not caused a wound severe enough to bleed more than a trickle, as evidenced by the scant traces of blood on my hand when I instinctively held it to the site, but it was like being stung by a dozen riled bees all at once. I cannot recall any sensation of actual pain after that; rather, every nerve in my body seemed to have been turned on simultaneously. My own heartbeat resounded in my ears like a drum being pounded upon by some careless musician not paying any heed to the rhythm. It beat so hastily that it should burst if this wildly erratic rate carried on for much longer.

I believe that as the now florid faced German picked up the revolver, I made some feeble effort to right myself, but only succeeded in making it all the easier for him to send the revolver crashing down just behind my left ear. I collapsed onto the discarded newspaper, the bold headlines the last thing to greet my drooping eyes as the lights eclipsed around me.

_~ 24 March 1897 ~_

_**TWO CRACKSMEN WANTED FOR BRAZEN BANK HEIST**_

"_Yesterday, the safes at the Royal Bank of Kensington were, in broad daylight, broken into by two accomplished cracksmen who robbed the bank of nearly seventeen thousand pounds in gold and notes," says Scotland Yard Inspector Stanley Hopkins. "We suspect the men had inside help for the job to be done so clean, but an astute employee has given The Yard a critical description of….."_

_

* * *

_

When I came to my senses, I was lying on my back in the bottom of the dog cart, my wrists bound with what was of late my tan cravat and blindfold. I was vaguely aware the daylight had faded into that murky gloom which heralds a fierce rainstorm. My head throbbed relentlessly, as did the rest of me. Who only knew how brutally the two blackguards had beaten me when I was out cold, though I ventured to guess by my wide assortment of pains they'd done a thorough job of it.

Which was more than could be said for the knot in the cravat. Discreetly loosening the shoddily done ties enough to wriggle my way out of the thing was a simple task, albeit I hadn't counted on the abrupt wave of dizziness that foiled my plans to catch my captors off their guard.

"Well, hallo, Doctor!" Rawlings flashed a mock smile my way before pointing the barrel of the revolver in my line of vision. "Have a nice nap, did we? No? Oh, that really is too bad. Ah, I see you're a tricky one," said he, flicking his eyes to my freed wrists. "It is of no consequence, however, since I perceive we have finally arrived at our destination, where, make no mistake of it, you shall be subdued properly."

As we came to a halt, Viktor's mammoth shadow loomed over me; then the man himself was atop me, hefting me up by my waistcoat and shoving me out so forcibly I landed in a graceless heap on the grass.

"Fool!" Rawlings hissed like the serpent he was. "Do not let him out of your grasp for an instant!"

"Why don't you keep shut, eh? The filthy little blighter isn't going anywhere."

I'd rolled over onto my side, intent on proving the German wrong, when he produced some sort of long needle from his waistcoat pocket and before my sluggish brain could catch up to the situation, he was bent down beside me, plunging it into my belly. There was that same sharp stabbing pain, the frantic heartbeat, a liquid fire erupting through my veins, though it was mercifully less intense than my first taste of the toxin. I mentally ransacked the bits of texts memorized from medical school, but nothing that came to mind perfectly matched the effects of those chemical compounds I was familiar with. Either this was a mixture or something entirely new altogether, neither of which bode well for me.

"Careful with the dosage," Rawlings remarked nonchalantly as he alighted and passed by my limp form. "We do not want it to kill him… just yet."

The brute Viktor wasted no time in hauling me up by my (formerly) good right arm through a lawn overgrown with wild dandelions, wrenching my shoulder joint so severely in the process I thought it might dislocate.

We followed Rawlings over a low hill up to a creaking wooden gate, once whitewashed but now peeled from years of neglect and disuse. Just beyond was a humble stone cottage, presumably long abandoned for the ruinous shape it was in. Further ahead was what appeared to be a rather stately manor house situated atop the highest hill in this valley, bit it was surrounded by a high stone wall capped with wrought iron barbs; and I fancied even from so far off I could hear the howling of dogs emanating from the grounds. Should an escape attempt on my part leave me without a bullet lodged in my back, there was no help for me in this desolate landscape. The manor itself was so remote and the valley so open and abandoned, save for a scattering of cows, it was more perilous for me to break away from my captors than to ride out this storm.

As we passed an unfastened window at the side of the cottage, the muffled voices of at least two others wafted into earshot. Rawlings poked his head inside, calling out for the men to join us. The scuffling of feet preceded the appearance of three others -- who amounted to a lot of ruffians seemingly freshly plucked from the dingiest East End public house. Two were massively built bears with rusted gears between their ears, going by their vacant expressions. Teapots with cracked lids, as my mother would politely put it. The other was a man of normal frame but towering in stature; some eerie shimmer in his eyes giving me an impression of one who was uncommonly shrewd and doubly formidable than his cronies.

Rawlings mumbled something to this ragtag group, who swiftly headed off behind the cottage. Moments later there came an ear-splitting grinding of stone rubbing against stone, followed by a dull thud. Viktor gave my arm a jerk when it went quiet, and led me around back to a cellar whose substantial stone cover now lay beside the opening.

I was shoved down into the cellar, though I maintain to this day I'd not given them an easy time of it. But in the end, I _was_ outnumbered five to one, unfair odds by anyone's standard, and found myself face down on the earthen floor with a mouth full of dirt as reward for my exertions.

Scrambling to my feet, I made for the staircase when the familiar voice of Rawlings called down to me from above.

"I shouldn't do that, if I were you, Doctor." His silhouette blotted out the dim light pooling into the cellar, and I am ashamed to say how the very sound of it gave me cause to back up a step. "You just wait here quietly until you're sent for, or I shall make you the sorriest devil to ever walk the earth!"

"Shoot me, and get it over with, for all I care," was my hoarse reply.

"Oh, I did not mean _that_."

From behind Rawlings, another figure came into view.

"Whatcha want me to do with this 'ere case?" It was certainly not the German, nor the two burly roughs -- the eerie fellow, then.

"Toss it down. We can dispose of them together once my old friend here has outlived his usefulness."

My valise was pitched down the staircase with enough force to burst open the latch, spraying the dingy earthen room with stray articles of clothing.

Rawlings and his accomplice turned on their heels, vanishing from my sight without uttering another word. Alone and shivering from the chill permeating the subterranean room, the stone hatch was lowered back into place, sealing me in an enclosure which very much reminded me of a crypt.

* * *

_I am not going to gasp my dying breath here. _

Repeating this incantation was more of an outlet to drain the welling panic than anything of an actual comfort. To be such, one must believe the truth of the statement, and I did not. Seeing as I was never one to stand idly by and wait for developments to occur, I was determined not to take up the habit, no matter how I might have liked nothing better than to crawl off into a corner and wait for my captors to quietly snuff out my life.

First things first. The place was black as midnight and nothing could be done without light.

Reaching into my waistcoat pocket, I removed a stray match, striking it against the stone wall to be rewarded with a pittance of light. I'd thought as much, but now that I was in a windowless cellar was proved true. This place was all brick and earth, lined with two dozen or so rows of shelving containing dust laden bottles of wine. I turned the match upwards, to where I recalled seeing the shadowy figure looming above the staircase to find the hatch was indeed a solid block of stone, and would be impossible for one man to move from below. Again, I thought my original crypt analogy was not so far removed from the truth.

Dejected, I blew out the match as the blue flame danced on the tips of my fingers.

What weighed foremost on my heart the day before was utterly meaningless to me here, slumped against the wall in some Unknown Place, helpless against being used for whatever it is my old University chum had destined for me.

Faced with the certainty this entire ordeal was far graver than I at first dared to fathom, I was forced to admit to myself there remained a possibility which became likelier with each ticking second that I'd no chance of making it out of this alive.

I am not so stoic as my friend, though I can honestly claim I've not given into tears since my boyhood. And it was not that I had any great fear of Death itself that stirred the reaction in me. It was the horrible thought that I would never again suffocate under the noxious cloud of Holmes' shag, or be or be awakened during the small hours of the night to the sweetly sombre timbre of him pouring out his soul through his Strad.

By the Lord harry, I had failed miserably, hadn't I? Whatever would my friend would want to do with me after this, if by some miraculous twist of fate I was allowed to live? He'd done nothing but place faith in me and what had I done but prove my own worthlessness? By his every manner upon returning I should have sensed that something was weighing heavily on his mind, that there was _always_ a method in his madness, and I would do well to heed his admonitions to me, no matter how little of it I understood.

This was entirely my own fault for having not trusted him. If I had taken his advice --

His advice! The note left in my luggage. _"If you insist on going, at least be prepared." _

It was a queer sort of thing to write -- _unless_ he was expecting trouble and wished me to prepare in some way for it, but how? He had given me no more instructions than that obscure reference. Yet, why take the pains to pack my bags when he did not even wish for me to go?

Because, you dense fool, he provided you with the means to be prepared for said unforeseen circumstances folded away with your clothes, there for you to utilize should the need arise.

I did not deserve such a friend.

My only match having been spent, I was compelled to crawl on the earthen floor in the slim hopes of locating whatever it was Holmes had slipped into my luggage. To say the least, it was a mite difficult, what with not being able to see past my finger tips, along with the minor complication of having no idea as to what it was I was even searching for.

After several prolonged minutes of groping through wayward articles of clothing strewn about the dirt packed floor, and having come across nothing out of the ordinary, I was set to throw my hands up in despair. Until I collided into my open valise the self-same instant the huge stone slab sealing me in was pushed away, spilling moonlight across the floor, inching ever closer to me as the cumbersome slab was slid off.

I picked at the hem of the lining, desperate to peel away the thin layer of material separating me from this thing Holmes felt it so imperative I have. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of what it was I found in my hand once I succeeded in tearing away the lining. The cold, heavy feel of this object was unmistakable.

It was my service revolver.

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:**_ Sorry to keep everyone in suspense for so long, but the muse needs a good swift kick. The fickle thing was not cooperating with me. At all._

_There is not much more to this story, but I did want to get something posted quickly as possible. So there should only be one more chapter, which is already in the works..._

* * *

Barely had I the chance to tuck the thing into the waist of my trousers when several pairs of feet scuffed down the staircase; and for a horrifying instant I _knew_ they had seen all, that my slim thread of hope was destined to be severed. There were six bullets to five men, at the very least. Fair odds if I played my cards right, so to speak, but I should have to be discreet, showing my hand only at the precise moment. An instant miscalculated, a single shot a hair inaccurate, and their combined pistols would put a swift end to my humble escape stratagem.

Composing myself, I sucked in a breath, suppressing the overwhelming urge to fire upon them in a haze of blind fury.

As they approached, it was evident neither Rawlings nor his German cohort were present, rather it was their three hired roughs - the two burly oafs and that eerily sharp eyed one in the lead, lighting the way with an upraised lantern - that headed towards me with murderous intentions. For it was blatantly obvious what they were up to when I noticed the curved dagger protruding from the belt of the most corpulent man. My experience with those self-same wretched instruments in Afghanistan led me to one conclusion alone. Since those things were the favourite means by which the murderous Ghazis mangled the corpse of an enemy until it was unrecognizable as ever having been human, I'd enough sense to realize it was not meant to intimidate, but to dispose of me.

I backed up against the stone wall, for all appearances hugging myself tightly from fear and cold, but in reality had one hand discreetly clamped around my revolver. To blazes with caution! I was set to make my move the very instant either or all of them drew near enough for me to make a clean shot.

"Look whatcha went and did!" The corpulent man pushed his way towards me, my trembling hand at the ready. "Yew done scared the poor bloke," he laughed, mockingly.

"Aw, we make ya wet yer pants, guv?" The other brutish fellow taunted. Stepping into the halo of light, it was now evident he carried a coil of rope.

But it was that eerie one who set down his lantern by my feet, so near I caught the faintest whiff of salt tinged air and partially rotting fish reminiscent of a wharf. He was attired in a dark colored pea jacket and cloth cap, his greasy shoulder length hair complimenting the growth of dingy stubble outlining his angular face. I gasped in a wave of renewed pain when he (quick as you please) grasped my lately misused, deucedly sore right arm. At this, my captor himself seemed to flinch, as though he were not expecting to elicit such a reaction, and was, if I dare suggest such a ludicrous thing, averse to have caused it.

This momentary bout of something akin to empathy on the part of the rough had the effect of distracting my thoughts sufficiently to catch me unawares when he tugged me over to his side by my collar. In the process, my hand had been jostled free of my weapon, and I was unable to reach for it just then without giving away my meager advantage.

" 'Ere, 'and over them ropes, willya?"

"Naw, don't yew worry yerself none. I'll take care of 'im real nice like, won't I, guv?" The other chimed in, setting his sights upon me with a fiendish smile whilst he flaunted the blade under my nose. Impulsively, I shuddered.

"Oi! No, yew don't," my captor hollered, shaking me by my scruff in the process like some reprimanded puppy. "Ain't met no landlubber yet what could tie up a right proper knot. If anyone's gonna do the job on this here stupid fop, well that someone is _me, _matey. Now _shove off_."

With a grunt of disappointment, the other backed off, though not before taking a jab perilously near to my face with that odious dagger. My captor gestured for him to hand it over, turning my blood to ice when he jested how he might have use of it as an incentive for me to heed my manners.

"Just yew make sure the little blighter goes quiet," he muttered, handing over the blade. "He done caused enuff trouble, he has. Don't need 'im making a bloody hash outta all our hard work, now do we? By the Lord Harry, I swear it woulda been easier breaking into Buckingham Palace itself than crackin' that ole spinster's crib!"

From here, my recollection of events are etched in my mind's eye with such startling lucidity I can still feel the bite of impossibly strong fingers twisting me round to face the cold stone wall, my hands wrenched behind my back almost before I was fully cognizant of this latest blow. It would be but a matter of seconds before this miscreant discovered my revolver, and struggle though I might, his hold was impenetrable as being locked in a vice. I'd one last resource - to scream, even if it meant having that blade plunged into the soft flesh of my belly. And that I did, at volumes clamorous enough to shake the cellar to its foundations.

Instead of wielding his dagger, to my absolute bewilderment, my captor discreetly released my arms whilst cupping one hand over my mouth and pressing his lips to my ear, as though he were about to utter a tame susurration amidst the din I was causing. To soothe me into silence rather than force me into an eternal one. Intriguing as his actions were, however, this was not the place for ruminations on the eccentricities of man's behaviour.

Seizing this advantage, I spun round, and had fired a bullet into my captor's shoulder before my own brain could register the motions.

The dagger fell to the ground with a sharp clang while the injured man, going against the normal reaction of a man who has just been shot, collapsed into my embrace, fisting his good arm into the back of my waistcoat. He tried to make some utterance, though naught came out but an unintelligible groan. It was at that precise moment our eyes met. As was to be expected, his were wide with shock, but there was also some unspoken plea in them - and heaven help me - that is when I truly _saw_ him.

One could not help but notice those eerily keen eyes like lanterns splicing through the thickest fog, but when my friend dons a disguise, he plays not a role; he metamorphisizes himself into the character. Even when I have known Holmes to be incognito, it was only with great difficulty that I was able to identify him. It was always with apprehension that I'd watched him leave our rooms cloaked in some guise or another, depending on his uncanny skills to keep him undiscovered - though now I wished with all that I was he'd not mastered the art so flawlessly.

"Oh, my dear fellow, what have I done?"

"All right Watson… you didn't know. I am to blame. Should have taken you into my confidences… trust you… implicitly." All this between heavy panting and shivering from the copious, swift blood loss. Which could only mean that from the location the of the wound I'd managed to hit the axillary artery, and had but a few minutes to quell the bleeding before he succumbed.

"I'll get you out of here, even if I must take down every man who stands in my way," said I, pointing my revolver at the two roughs who proceeded to march backwards with a bit of persuasion from my revolver.

"I think not, Herr Doktor."

My attention was turned back up towards the stone staircase, where a beam of incandescent light poured into the murky cellar, revealing the sinisterly smiling face of Rawling's German nephew and the man himself as they ambled down though they'd not a care in all the world.

"Rawlings! You've sorely misjudged me if you believe I'll not shoot you down without compunction. Only come one step nearer if you need convincing."

"Truly?" Alistair laughed. "Oh, Doctor, you are in no position to give such injunctions." He halted straight in front of me, his own gun pointed at Holmes, his finger impatiently stroking the trigger.

The German was barking orders at the two roughs to fetch the dagger and stand their ground behind me, effectively corralling myself and Holmes between them. He now stood beside Rawlings, holding a familiar glass syringe in lieu of any arms. Without question, I knew it to be my friend's thrice blasted one, having had on more occasions than I care to credit, taken a close view of that vile thing when it was dropped to the floor after its owner slipped into a stupor. Or when deep in an apathetic torpor I'd been required to extract the filthy instrument out of his arm. So I was well acquainted with that thing, though what the meaning of all this was, why Viktor would be in possession of it, was mystifying.

"You recognize it - splendid!" Alastair cried. "I see those accounts of Mr. Holmes' dirty habit were not an exaggeration on your part, were they? But you are wondering how I came by it, so I shan't keep you in the dark a moment longer. I pinched it right off the mantle while your friend here was making a bit of a scene over your writing desk. Along with a few vials of his… what was it? A seven-percent solution? Not an inordinately high dosage in and of itself, but an adequate one, as I think you might agree."

I'm sure his words would have stung as they were meant to had my friend not slumped into a dead weight in my hold, well aware of the proceedings but too weak to do much other than attempt to form words that died as a strangled gasp on his lips or tighten his hold on me. I knelt down to the floor with him, removed his tattered pea coat and used his braces as a makeshift tourniquet to stem the uncontrolled bleeding.

"Whatever you have to say to me, Rawlings, you had better say it quick, for if anything happens to him, there will be no one left to listen."

"How sporting! See," he elbowed Viktor. "Are things not falling into place beautifully?"

"_Ja, denn jetzt_. _***1**_ I'll be convinced entirely when the night is over."

"Now, to get down to business," Rawlings went on, turning his attentions back to me. "I was expecting you tonight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as I am sure you've surmised by this point. Clever as you think yourself to be, I have been several steps ahead of you in this game. I was alerted to the fact that a certain government agent was dogging our every move, and somehow, had become informed of our plans to have an intimate look at Duchess Amberly's collection of diamonds tonight, being connoisseurs of fine jewelry ourselves. It was no great feat to discover the identity of that agent, but aware the spy was already amongst our ranks, I understood we must trap you into revealing your identity. But how to bait the snare?

"It was obvious from the outset there was but one angle we had to our advantage. Who better than my old friend John Watson, the half-witted sycophant who was ever ready to fawn over his self-important detective. So there you have it. I sent the three of you in with that little trinket," here he nodded to the dagger, "and placed my bets that my quarry would be rousted out with the motivations of keeping that toy away from his dear Doctor. It was all rather predictable to the point of tedium, if you must know.

"I do grant I'd not foreseen the slight impediment that brings us to this standstill. An error on my part, but by no means a fatal one - for myself, at least. I have a proposition for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if I'm not much mistaken, he will gratefully accept."

"_Go to blazes." _My friend ground out, his face still buried in my waistcoat.

"Oh, I shall, but after you." At this, he murmured something to the German, which induced him to remove a handful of Holmes' cocaine vials out of his pocket.

"That bullet wound looks ugly," Rawlings noted. "Your Doctor has done an admirable job at treating it; only fair since he was the careless fellow who caused it. Perhaps you will bleed out from it, but I've not the time nor patience to wait. And it will not be a pleasant way to go.

"I assume you sent a telegram to your Scotland Yard cronies informing them to expect us tonight? You need not reply, Mr. Holmes; I am not so foolish as to think otherwise. I have a telegram form at the ready, and all you need to do is write out a cancellation legibly as you can. Sign it in your distinct hand, and leave the rest to us. In turn, we will refrain from overdosing the Doctor with your poison, although would there not be such poetry in it if you were to indirectly be the death of him? I am rather fond of that notion, though if you comply with what we ask, he will be free to go this very instant, unharmed. Of course, the unused poison will be put to use granting you an eternal rest. Your loyalty will cost you dearly, Mr. Holmes. The ultimate price a man can pay. What say you? Do you accept my offer?"

My friend was nodding his head in assent when I rolled him off - and subsequently, out of the line of Rawling's weapon - and fired my own. No sooner had I done so, there was the cold press of steel on the back of my neck and return fire from Rawlings, which grazed past my ear but left me relatively unscathed. The brute with the knife had me by the hair, slammed me down face first and pinned me down with his whale like form.

Then Viktor was bent on one knee, plunging the syringe into my arm… refilling it, and plunging down again. While I cannot swear to it, I fancied I heard my friend let out a frightful sob.

* * *

_**To Be continued... **_

_***1**_ "_Yes, for now."_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: **__Was this ever the troublesome!fic of trouble… _

_Originally, the *entire story* was supposed to be around 5,000-ish words. Pffft. The muse (when she decided to grace me with her presence) had other ideas. Even though it was plotted out to the letter & I tried to cut out all extraneous scenes, it srsly had a life of it's own.  
_

_So... I did say there would only be one more part, and technically there was, but…the last chapter **Would**__**. Not. End. **__I have been working a marathon session since the muse decided to return from whatever holiday she was on & pretty much am finished now, just reworking a scene/polishing everything up. Maybe later tonight the ending (omgz I love the sound of that) will be posted, or more likely sometime tomorrow. I hated to keep everyone waiting this long and just wanted to get another chapter up to prove I have not actually abandoned this. Hope you all enjoy! _

_And sorry for the wait._

_Oh - BTW, I included the code from GLOR. If anyone's memory needs refreshing, I did add the translation.  
_

_

* * *

_

_**~ Holmes' POV ~ **_

"Take another step towards that bloody door, sir, and you'll find this knife buried in your back."

"_Ja_, I believe it, Rawlings. You would kill me as easily as look at me, you damnable traitor!"

"That is where you err, Herr Von Wechsler. Now that fortune has delivered Mr. Sherlock Holmes to us on the proverbial platter, I've no use of your inferior safe-cracking skills, and I find killing you would be _considerably_ simpler than having to waste another second looking at your beastly face. Now, move back or I'll stay true to my warning."

With a contemptuous sneer, the German shuffled backwards to join us at the far end of the sitting room, all the while intently staring at the sliver of murky light spilling underneath the threshold.

We sat without light around a round card table - Rawlings, the German and I - the two hired roughs having been sent off to dispatch my contrived telegram after relegating the Doctor to the upstairs bedroom. Whether my dearest friend - heavens! the _only_ man singular enough to tolerate my company - still had breath left in him, I was not as yet privy to.

Only moments after their departure with the telegram, did we faintly hear a creaking on the rickety floorboards of the porch, the unmistakable sound of a purposefully hesitant step. That it could be either of the roughs returning was dismissed outright. Our visitor was too mindful in keeping to the shadows, so that we never could see his own shadow poking in. His relative position was so uncertain from our vantage point, that when the piece of paper was slipped under, one of a lesser intellect might have mistaken his shrewdness for a ghostly hand having delivered the communication.

And so they waited for the devil knew what, never tearing their gaze off that single piece of paper folded beneath the doorframe. Surely, an item that was not quite the inspiration of awe in and of itself, though in this instance, the two blackguards were as averse to it as if laying a hand on the thing would singe off their flesh.

Resistance on my part was a deucedly useless cause.

This was not so much due to the trifling scratch on my shoulder or the vexing light headedness ungraciously scrambling my train of thought. Had I endeavoured to do as much on our way into the cottage, no doubt my mastery of baritsu surely would have served me well in such a tight corner, as any reader of the Doctor's inanely florid memoirs of my petty exploits will know. Thus, in theory, putting up a struggle was the honorable option; though for practicalities sake, I was forced into strict compliance with the wishes of the most nefarious cracksmen turned murders this side of the continent.

After all, it was not _my_ head the revolver was aimed at. Nor should I have allowed myself to be secured in so degrading a manner, led docilely as lamb to slaughter were it only my own insignificant life that hung in the balance.

I'd been bound to a chair after penning to the very letter, an abrupt, dictated missive to Lestrade & Co., deflecting them to another locale (for to cancel the operation outright had the drawback of rousing suspicions). Not a syllable dared I manipulate either, for if my friend did cling still to life, then it was he whom I essentially cast into the fray as a bargaining chip. With the greatest pleasure, I should sacrifice my own meager, stale existence if doing such guaranteed the ends of Alistair Rawlings and Viktor Von Wechsler, but even the coldest of men have their limits, and placing Watson into such a position was more extravagant a price than I could endure paying.

My shamefully maudlin reverie was broken into by a jab to my injured shoulder.

"Go on," Rawlings goaded. "Get up off your lazy arse and fetch it, man." Poking the tip of the knife into Von Wechsler's chest, he ordered his associate to confirm my companion remained unconscious. Then turned the blade on my ropes, slicing though them clean as butter.

"No funny business, Mr. Holmes - I can fling a blade just as quick as fire a bullet," he remarked as I rose.

Once I reached the door, I pressed my ear up against it, my sharply acute hearing registering naught but an absolute hush worthy of the graveyard. Satisfied that the mysterious sender had indeed taken his leave, I crouched down to pick up and inspect the thing, which was a plain sheet torn from a notebook, as evidenced by the irregular edging on one side. Next, I held it under my nose to ascertain its odour - and whilst I readily admit I am not one prone to those ridiculous fits of excitability as are so common to members of the fair sex - I _did_ inwardly twitch in my repressed agitation.

"_Ship's…"_ I murmured.

"What the devil do you think you're doing? Bring that here this instant!"

I complied without further delay, my step a fair bit lighter upon my return.

Rawlings ripped the epistle from me, nearly tearing the thing in his haste to read the message. His beady eyes quickly skimmed over the lettering, turned it over, then again, mouthing the words as he read, before giving it a second and third perusing. Furrowing his brows, he removed a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat pocket in a last attempt to comprehend what his rather exiguous brain was obviously unable to make sense of.

"Perhaps it is writ in code," I suggested.

"Whatever can it mean? I've not come so far - _so close _- to have it all snatched away by some prankster at the eleventh hour! I shan't tolerate these nonsensical goings on, not when Lady Manderlay's diamonds are practically within my reach!" Rubbing together his forefinger and thumb, Rawlings continued his ramblings. "I can almost _feel_ the gems… _Jove, but they are exquisite_."

"Might it not be in your best interests to allow me a look at this message which troubles you so?"

Rawlings set his dark eyes on me, unwilling to believe my offer of assistance was genuine.

"I do seem to have a turn for unraveling such riddles."

"Then if it is encoded, you swear you can decipher it and warn me if it bespeaks of any threats to my plans?"

"Conceivably so; though I offer no guarantees my attempts shall be fruitful. Seeing as you can make neither heads nor tails of the thing, what have you to lose?"

"No, I suppose there can be no harm in your taking a peek," said he, smoothing the message out on the table. I was bade to sit, whereupon my hands were tied unreasonably tight behind my back as I leaned over to peer down at the scrawl.

"Hmm. A disguised hand; note the inconsistencies on the tails of the 's' and the loops of the 'y'. The sender must have been aware of - _how very queer_…" I narrowed my eyes as I took a moment to painstakingly study the words.

"_Rowdy behaviour stopped otherwise upright men during supper, and apparently has prevented their engagements. Fake reports indicate words unspoken are reaching an unintended destination. _

_Advised to approach riffraffs from side or their gate may unhinge. _

_- Your enemies are loyal, yet your servant is reliable."***1**_

"Ha!" I ejaculated, squelching the urge to spring from my seat.

"Tell me what it all means! What have you found, man?"

"Exactly what I expected."

"Yes, yes?"

"Your average cipher will contain some semblance of form, but I regret to say this writing blatantly lacks any organization of that variety. I can make nothing of this message; it's pure twaddle."

"Oh, is _that _your conclusion?" said he, stepping behind me. "What if I am not quite certain that you're speaking the truth, Mr. Holmes?" At this, he edged the cold blade of the knife against my throat, with a light hand gliding it back and forth, explicitly simulating what his designs on my person were to be should he not care for my reply.

"I suppose you shall just have to burn with the curiosity, then."

"You insolent liar!" he cried, striking my cheek with the back of his hand, forcibly enough that my eyetooth split open my lip. I spat blood onto his boots, which was approximately when he clutched me by the hair and compressed his dagger to my windpipe with such force as to evoke a gag. I remain fully convinced that if his compatriot had not (most felicitously) stormed down the stairs, his face blanched and haggard, that fiend would have finished what he began.

"He's gone! _Lieber Gott__***2**_, the Doctor has vanished without a trace!"

* * *

_**~ Watson's POV ~**_

It was already quarter to midnight when last I stole a glance at my pocket watch, and despite the lateness of the hour, there came not the most miniscule hint of life from within the cottage. I was positive whilst I was unceremoniously hauled inside, slung over the shoulder of the burlier rough like some ill used sack, there had been a lamp burning atop a small table off to the back. From my position here - that is, concealed amidst a generous row of overgrown reeds skirting the mucky pond in the side garden - that light would be plainly visible. Either Rawlings and his German partner were tightly bolted up in that house, fully cognizant the law was nipping at their heels, or the gang having hitherto made off for Manderlay Manor while I was otherwise engaged 'preoccupying' their two hired roughs was a dreaded reality.

As to that aforementioned preoccupying, I'd faced no difficulty whatsoever, seeing as I was conveniently presumed to be paying my dues to Charon_***3**_, _and_ had the advantage of a well placed ventilator communicating with the downstairs room. Rawlings, adhering to the nature of your average deranged villain, wagged his tongue as to nearly every aspect of his tactics for burgling the Manor house atop the hill… as I made my own plans to bring to a close this waking nightmare my friend and I found ourselves embroiled in.

I made my move the instant the two ruffians set foot outside with the phony telegram.

It had been a simple matter to scrawl two notes - one of which appeared to be no more than a peculiar prank to the casual observer, but would speak volumes to Holmes. Having removed my boots and stockings once I climbed down the drainpipe (so as to remain unheard on the porch), I slipped the note under the door and proceeded to erase any tracks I'd left in the soil within several meters of the house. Having done so, I stuffed myself beneath the seat of the dog cart just as the horse was whipped into motion.

Luck was surely on my side when the fellow wielding the telegram addressed to the Inspector shrugged out of his jacket, crumbling it between himself and the other. Early on, I'd realized the telegram would be missed were I to snatch it away - thus prematurely leading the two back to base and spoiling the slim opportunity we had to make it through this interminable night with our lives intact.

So it was the inspiration came upon me to write out another telegram, this one re-directing Lestrade towards the cottage, and to lie in ambush in the unchecked weeds of the side garden. Were they to storm into the house with pistols blazing, the likelihood that Holmes should find himself an unfortunate hostage far outweighed any benefits to that manoeuver.

Switching the two telegrams was quite the nerve wracking endeavour. It was managed bit by gruelingly slow bit, inching the envelope out of the pocket it protruded from a single hair's breadth at a time. I'd broken out into a cold sweat and was thanking Providence for the innate steadiness of a surgeon's hands when it was over with, but I'd switched those two wires without either of those prodigies so much as batting an eye. I cannot rightly say if this was more due to my stealth or their slowness.

The nearest town was at the bottom of one devilishly steep hill. It was perhaps two London blocks in length and consisted of the Post Office, a public house on both corners, a motel, and several structures with faded 'To Let' signs in the front windows. Certainly no place where one might acquire a fresh horse, so while one made for the Post Office and the other the public house, I made off with the dog cart.

Upon my return, I'd hitched the animal to a footbridge just out of view of the cottage and made my way to the side garden on foot. Here I waited now, my earlier exhilaration all but worn thin. It had all seemed so ingenious, so absurdly simple as Holmes might have said, yet when a fellow is alone with his thoughts, waiting for something - _anything_ to fall into place as it should, one's mind can indeed be a devious place to dwell.

I'd resolved to risk a peek inside, in the hopes that the cottage had not been abandoned during my absence, when there came from within a thunderous crash. I jumped to my feet in time to see a great plume of smoke seeping out through the broken pane of the rear window.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_

_***1** Message in every 2__nd__ word: "Stopped men and prevented fake words reaching destination. Approach side gate. Your loyal servant."_

_***2** Dear God!_

_***3** In Greek mythology, Charon was the boatman who ferried the dead across the River Styx into the Underworld. The custom of placing coins on the eyes of the newly dead traces back to the belief one's soul could not be admitted into the vessel without payment. Hence Watson's expression of "paying his dues to Charon". _


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: **__Finally. The last part. YAYZ! *does happy dance*_

_I apologize for this fic taking so long to complete… this thing sort of had a (very rabid) mind of its own and just kept expanding no matter how I tried to tame it. Plus, the WORST case of writer's block/muse abandonment struck during this, and I swear to you all that at the lowest point I could neither spell a three letter word correctly, much less formulate a coherent sentence. Then I lost my "voices" and for some reason heard "Indeed, sir!" every time I attempted to write Holmes. Shut. Up. Jeeves. _

_Oh - several readers pointed out the Doctor's "miraculous" recovery… there **IS** a reason for that, which I will explain in the epilogue *grins*_

_Hope this has been worth the ridiculous wait. If anyone catches any glaring mistakes I point the finger at my half-dead brain & will do my best to fix any discrepancies or stupidities, et cetera which may have occurred *insert smiley face here*_

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**~Watson's POV ~**

All this blasted idle waiting for the reinforcements to appear had worm my constitution more intensely than the events of the past eight-and-forty hours, including my most formidable efforts to put to rights this astoundingly surreal experience. Hours ago, my battered body had suffered through the limits of human exhaustion, fueled now only by some primitive drive to endure, my near feral mental state the last lifeline carrying me through this ordeal. It was the calmness of my garden vigil which lulled the inner tempest sustaining me.

The brunt of the effects of my drugging were felt during that first half hour of torpid euphoria, wherein my senses were assailed from every conceivable angle. The creak of the floorboards as I was conveyed up the stairs resounded in my ears like the wailings of some terrible banshee. Voices were garbled and nonsensical, yet when my eyes creaked open I saw with an acuteness attributable only to that of a nocturnal beast. Lying supine on the bed, my heart fluttered erratically, until I was convinced it should burst at this rapid, desultory rate. To this day, I am under no fanciful delusions that had Rawlings (ever striving to attain that certain artistic touch in his iniquitous profession) not pinched the cocaine from our own mantle, the account of this adventure would be buried with our bones somewhere beneath a muck laden pond in the lovely county of Surrey.

It seemed now any former sprightliness on my part had faded as thoroughly and suddenly as did the manifestations of my drugging. Away from any immediate threats, every particle of me was dulled with an oppressive exhaustion.

Thus, that the cottage had been set on fire did not immediately register in my sluggish brain.

I can recall my attention being drawn to the great billowing clouds rising from the window sashes, of the way it fragmented into particles of dust as it coalesced with and was scattered by the gentle night breeze. Albeit, I did not come to understand the full implications of what I beheld until the weight of a steady hand on my shoulder awakened me to the most dismal of realities.

A conflagration had broken out along the far corner of the ground floor, and no minor one at that, if the blast of dense smoke issuing from the now shattered side window was any indication. Flames gushed out of the orifice, consuming what remained of the panels and wooden frame rapidly as it took me to envision the motionless form of Sherlock Holmes sprawled on the floor, at the mercy of those unforgiving flames. I have always been inclined to such overly vivid and fantastical flights of imagination, but never did my mind's own creations concoct imagery so dreadful I would scrub out the simulacrum, if doing the thing was only within my powers.

The hand I was vaguely aware thus far clutched my shoulder tightened as I made to spring towards the cottage. I had fully expected to be met with either one of the roughs I'd waylaid or perhaps Rawlings or the man posing as his nephew. What I'd made a point to not rely upon seeing, however, became the very likeness of what _did_ greet my weary eyes. In fact, so doubtful was I that this was not merely some mirage of the wishful brain - or worse, that I was still lying drugged insensible in the upstairs room, lost in a fog of hallucinations - I was only assuaged when the man again warned me to be steady in that gloriously familiar voice.

"_Lestrade!" _I ejaculated with a fair bit of incredulity. "Tell me you are not some illusion!"

The fellow's beady, deep set eyes glittered brightly. "Oh, I am real enough, Doctor."

"The cottage is ablaze," I responded, rather lamely.

"Indeed it is, Doctor; which is why I insist you come away with me to safer ground. No, no. It's no use protesting! I'll not hear any of it. Mr. Holmes will throttle me but good if he knew I made no move to stop you from running head first into that death trap! Besides, my men are on top of it as we speak. We are not so incompetent as your friends believes."

"What the devil is it to me if I don't survive? Past experience dictated quite clearly I've nothing to live for with him gone, and pray believe I should rather be burnt to cinders in there than be intact though wholly incomplete out here!"

There was a struggle, I am certain of it. The placement of mud stains later discovered on the rear of my trousers suggests the tenacious little ferret made ample headway in curbing my efforts, clearly having me pinned to the ground at some point. This is all inconsequential clutter in the attic of my brain (as my friend might be inclined to word it) therefore I can remember nothing sequentially until I'd shoved my way past several uniformed constables hacking soot from their lungs on the porch.

I burst into that deuced furnace, and from then on, every precise detail is etched into my mind's eye with such accuracy, that even now I can taste the unusually acrid smoke as it stole into my lungs, strangling off my supply of breathable air. The flames were somewhat confined to the back room, since save for a few odd pieces, the room distinctly lacked furniture or curtains to act as so much tinder; but the smoke was so pervasive it was nigh on impossible to see my own outstretched hand.

"Holmes!" I shouted through a fit of coughing, the atmosphere becoming quite intolerable. Once the episode had passed, I called out a second time, only to be met with a resounding silence that chilled my heart despite the blazing heat. Covering my mouth with my handkerchief, I wended my way closer to the flames, alternately calling to Holmes and shielding my mouth and nose with the flimsy piece of material.

It was not until I was so near the conflagration that I felt the tongues of flame licking at my face that I stumbled over the corpse.

I froze, convinced for a horrifying second my worst nightmare had materialized and was sprawled under my feet. Dropping to my knees, I frantically patted down the motionless form, a pang of nausea stabbing my gut as my fingers came into contact with the knife embedded to the hilt in the dead man's spine. I rolled the fellow onto his side, which was no simple task what with the throbbing ache emanating from seemingly every limb at the merest movement. There was not much of the unfortunate I could make out, for his features were obscured by a mess of blood leaking out every orifice, but that his hair was fair under all this deuced filth lightened my heart so excessively, I cried out in relief.

This could only be Von Wechsler, then, his remuneration for those misdeeds committed having finally been appropriated. With apathy in my heart, I strode over his body, fanning away a particularly noxious cloud of smoke as I attempted to weave through the expanse of randomly smouldering floorboards.

Again I cried out to my friend, scarcely able to gasp out the words for all I was choking. If I must be forthright, I expected no acknowledgement, for in some dark corner of my mind, I was convinced the great detective lived no more.

All the same, to my utter astonishment, there came a distinct pounding somewhere directly ahead of me, evidently emanating from vicinity of the back wall. Let me say it should be no little embellishment upon this already outlandish tale were I to mention how I practically flew towards the sound, dodging (and narrowly avoided being hit by) pieces of the falling rafters without the slightest care for my own safety. There was but one objective motivating me; everything else was inconsequential.

I continued to shout frantically, groping the walls to guide me through this impenetrable haze, when I began to feel the queerest vibrations under my palms. Ones which pulsed in time with the vigorous poundings. Startled by this most unexpected turn of events, I confess to momentarily entertaining the notion those monsters had Holmes up behind the wall - yet this was so absurd I dismissed it almost instantaneously. And as I did so, the true solution quite literally fell into my hands, as it were. For as I traced the walls for any gaps which might mark any weak points I could worry at with my bare hands if need be, I chanced upon the spherical doorknob, and in a stroke of good fortune, a long key protruded still from the lock.

Mark my words; I fell on my knees to bless Providence when I smoothly turned that key and a bound, gagged, blood drenched and generally cruelly treated - but very much _alive_ - consulting detective toppled out.

I wasted not a single second in dragging him back into what amounted to a standing room linen closet, for the air in that little cubby-hole was not so thoroughly tainted. Leaving the door slightly ajar, it was my aim to pull off the gag and loosen his bindings just enough to give him more freedom of movement. Were I forced to carry Holmes out, then so be it, but our escape would prove stealthier were he not so painfully constricted by his bonds. With trembling fingers, I disentangled the stubborn knot in the gag, my normally unfaltering nerves more than a bit jarred; though not a whit from the impossibility of our predicament, rather the extraordinarily warm gaze he fixed upon me. I've no little pride in my uncanny ability to read the minutiae of my friend's demeanour, a skill which is honed to the point that it oft allows us to freely engage in all manner of nonverbal communication. Be that as it may, this specific glimmer in his piercing silver eyes was entirely foreign to me, and as for what significance it conveyed, to this day I cannot fathom.

Even more confounding was how he remained eerily silent once I'd succeeded in unbinding the gag, scrutinizing me with an intensity of concentration the likes of which only ever surfaced whilst in the deepest contemplation of some abstruse problem. It gave me such a turn I very nearly forgot the cottage was burning to a cinder around us.

"Holmes!" I cried, tugging at his sinewy wrist. "Hurry, man; before it's too late!"

Yet, he made no move to comply, only stood there with that queer expression plastered on his features. "I thought… I should never see you again, my dear boy, and it would have been my own doing."

"That is of no consequence now," said I, voice cracking, my eyes stinging for a wholly different reason than the poisonous atmosphere. "Nothing matters now, save for getting out that door and into the fresh air. So do be a good fellow and _move_, for I intend to suffocate alongside you otherwise!"

"You _cannot_ mean that."

"I do, and I will, unless you -"

But I was cut off by the slam of the closet door behind us, the mild start it gave me turning into dread when the key was deliberately turned in the lock.

"Let that be your coffin," came the unmistakable though scratchy voice of Rawlings between his own oppressing coughs.

* * *

**~ Lestrade's POV ~**

Of all the rummy predicaments our amateur theorist Mr. Sherlock Holmes has managed to wedge himself into, this one took the cake, it did. 'Course, the man himself would disagree - and for no better reason than to be disagreeable, you understand - when I say one doesn't work his way up in the Yard without being liberally blessed with equal doses of ingenuity and fairness. So it's this impartial proclivity of mine that leads me to say let him stew in his own juices, as it were; though the trouble was, the lout had gone and dragged the Doctor into _this_ mire right along with him.

The thing began normally enough, if you can attribute that adjective to anything concerning Mr. Holmes. He comes strutting into my office that morning (practically with the lark!), that crook nose of his stuck so high in the air I wonder if it's worth the risk opening my mouth to tell him take heed lest he scorch it on the sun.

"Congratulate me, Lestrade," says he, smug as you please, preening like a feline that just swallowed a canary. "Whilst Scotland Yard has been chasing their tails on the hunt for Viktor Von Wechsler, it was _my_ assiduous brain-work which has flushed the rat out of his hole."

"You have him, then!" said I in amazement. And bally well patting myself on the shoulder for holding my tongue.

"Not quite. But I shall within the next eight-and-forty hours. Through a very clever use of disguise as one 'Captin Basil' and my connections under said persona, I am now in the employ of his own right hand man. With the death of Lord Manderlay a fortnight ago, they've wasted no time in setting out to burgle Manderlay Manor, now that the half decrepit Lady of the house and one or two ancient servants are all that stand in their way," he remarked with a flourish of his hand.

"Not to mention Lady Manderlay's prized Great Danes…" I thought it fitting to mention.

"Which they mean to eliminate with poison laced meat," said the detective with the air of one who expects you to have known what they spoke of from having read the contents of their mind.

"They have confided their plans to me - well, Captain Basil anyhow - down to the bare bones. Von Wechsler and his cohort have taken pains to be precise about this - they even plan to add kidnapping to their roster of felonies, though for what means, my employer has been vague. I have been recruited to see to it this fellow is well subdued when they are off pillaging their jewels."

"And there is no doubt Von Wechsler will show for this job?"

"None whatsoever. I tell you, Lestrade, I as good as have my man cuffed in the derbies already! All I require of you is to arrive at the Manor house with several of your men soon as darkness falls. I have already alerted Lady Manderlay as to the situation, so she and her household will not be in your way. They have no intent to make a move before the small hours of the morning - that should give you ample time to come down from London and give them an appropriate welcoming. Might I rely on you?"

"Of course! If it is as you say then I consider it an honour to arrest that dirty scoundrel."

"Capital! We shall meet again tomorrow." He rose, taking my hand in a crushing handshake. "I am off to see brother Mycroft. He has sent a wire promising further information on the identity of this chap they mean to kidnap. Urgent that I see him, or so he would have me believe…"

And that was the last I saw or heard from the amateur consulting detective/theorist until that telegram.

Three of my finest men and I had just set foot in a four wheeler headed towards the station when some grimy little street urchin, all ruddy in the face and half in tears, is pulling on my sleeve and shouting to be heard on the other side of London Bridge. He's howling so loud I've got a mind to take him in for disturbing the peace, when I recognize the boy as being one of Mr. Holmes' youngest Irregulars. In what was surely one of my brightest moments of detective work, I manage to coax the story from the little beggar between heaving sobs.

Seems he's been scouring the city for me, he has, as I was nowhere to be found at the Yard, and the telegram office's boy was on strict orders from Mr. Holmes to hand all correspondence addressed to me from him to the Doctor, their saintly landlady, or one of his Irregulars. Being a close chum of said lad, it was he who was picked out to make sure that piece of paper found me in no time flat.

When all is said and done (and a good twenty minutes wasted) he hands me over a letter which reads:

_Lestrade -_

_Mutual friend in grave peril. Come to cottage by Manor house, Surrey. Bring reinforcements. Will meet at side garden. Low-key entrance imperative. _

_- JHW _

The Doctor, unlike that insufferable fellow-lodger of his, is not one to get you worked up into a dither over a thing if it is, in fact, an airy nothing. While I expected the usual bedlam that follows the man like a shadow, there was nothing what could have prepared me for the unholy mess playing out when we made it to the scene.

We smelt the smoke before we saw it hovering over the highest hill from a good mile off. The groom, bless him, was whipping up the horse fast as he could, though the back axle of our carriage was creaking something terrible, about ready to split into halves. 'Course, this complicated things when our driver had no other choice but to slow his pace up this breakneck hill, so that we were veritably crawling up to the site of all the fuss.

Being a man of patience is not one of my virtues, so I sprang out of the barely moving carriage without hardly a second thought, and was proud to see the four police constables with me followed suit. Cannot say how long it took us to reach the cottage, but damned if we didn't beat that broken down old carriage to it.

When I see that place half consumed by flames, my blood froze in my veins, it did. There was no trace of either the Doctor or that maddening detective, so I sent in my constables to scour that cottage while there was still something remaining to _be_ scoured. In the meanwhile, I took off towards the side gate, which led into an overgrown jungle of vines and underbrush.

One of the side windows burst from the heat, sending out a plume of flame which then draws my attention to none other than Dr. Watson, crouching in the reeds. For all purposes, he seems to be looking straight at the carnage, but his brows are wrinkled as though he doesn't quite understand the meaning of it all. It doesn't take a genius the calibre of Mr. Consulting Detective himself to sense something is severely wrong with the man, and when I happen to lay my hand on his shoulder, he looks up at me with unfocused, bloodshot eyes. Nearly jumped clean out of my skin, seeing him so.

It is plain as day that whatever got him to be in such a state still hasn't released its grip on the Doctor, even as he is set to clash with me should I dare prevent him from running in after his friend. Chap has mettle in spades, which I suppose is to be expected of an old campaigner, but upon my word, he puts to shame my own grit as a hardened veteran Yarder. I suspect anyone less tenacious hasn't a snowball's chance in blazes keeping of their wits living for years with Sherlock Holmes.

So the fool charges into that conflagration and I'd never sleep a peaceful slumber again were I to allow the Doctor to head alone into what amounted to a suicide mission.

'Course, the smoke and flame turns out to be thicker than the foulest pits of Hades. What you can see is blurred by the flicker of the fire, and I was hard pressed to take in a full breath, much less call out to the Doctor or his idiotic friend. Though I _did_ hear him shouting like the very devil was at his heels just as I was about to give up and turn back. It was no simple task making it to the origin of the voice, believe you me, and had the blackguardly fellow Mr. Alastair Rawlings not careened into my person, Heaven knows if we'd not have all met our ends within the next five minutes.

Oh, even with my pistol between his miserable eyeballs that good-for-nothing rat just smiled like I was offering him congratulations instead of threatening to decorate the wallpaper with his brains. "Let me go," he says smoothly "and I'll show you what I did with your precious Mr. Holmes."

The rest, as they say, is history. An ultimatum such as I was given leaves no room for fence-straddling while the lives of two innocent - _good_ - men hang in the balance. I made my bargain with the monster, who wasted not a second in fleeing like the cowardly dog he was.

I'd be a right fair liar if I said it never passed my mind that Rawlings gave me a false admission to save his own neck, but as it turned out, the dirty lout had told what was arguably the first truthful word of his rotten life.

It was a pathetic sight that met me when I discovered the linen closet no more than an arm's length behind me and found the two occupants passed out, the Doctor on Death's door and Mr. Holmes in considerably better shape, having had his head covered by Dr. Watson's discarded sack coat. The two were huddled in the far corner, one stubbornly refusing to leave the other's side even if it meant a bump in their odds at survival. Though it was hotter than a witch's cauldron in that infernal room, a cold shiver bolted down my spine.

* * *

**_Continue to the Epilogue…_**


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: **Yes, I am aware my timeline for BLAN is off, but making a royal hash of the dates is nothing the Doctor himself is not blatantly guilty of. This is narrated in Watson's POV, btw. _

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**~ EPILOGUE ~**

A balmy breeze rustled the pale blue _fleur-de-lis _patterned curtains through the mahogany French doors, beyond which stood a long-limbed man wrapped tightly in his dressing gown, puffing away on his cigarette. An oppressing grogginess (which stems from those prolonged slumbers that are nevertheless altogether insufficient) obfuscated my senses immediately upon awakening in a cheery room brightly illuminated by natural sunlight. It was an agreeable a place to find oneself in, and indeed, my bedclothes were deliciously comfortable, but nothing about the room was at all familiar.

This must have given me cause to panic, for try as I might, there was no remembering how it was I came to be in this place. Convinced there was safety only in movement, I attempted to right myself, though in my weakened condition only managed something between a grunt and a groan.

It was enough to attract the attention of the smoking man, who flicked his cigarette to the ground and was perched on my bedside within three long strides.

"Watson? _Watson! _For God's sake, man, speak to me!"

"Oh, Holmes," I sighed, the anxiety flushed from my body like a bloodletting when he took my feverish hand in both of his. His skin was cool as ever, and for once, I was grateful for it. "They have you here, too?"

"No, no, my dear fellow - it is over, well and truly over. Von Wechsler is dead -"

"I know… saw his body," I interrupted. "But Rawlings…"

"Also dead; and good riddance to him, I say."

"How can it be?" I protested. Nothing was making a whit of sense!

"He escaped the cottage after sealing us into the closet that night, yet he was doggedly pursued by one of Lestrade's men, who was out on the porch for a bit of fresh air when he dashed out. I have remarked to you that violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. So it was in this instance. Rawlings was chased as far as the gates of Manderly Manor, though, having informed the mistress of the house as to the nefarious plans of the gang, she was insightful enough to loosen the entire kennel of Great Danes on the property. Our man believed only two dogs would be roaming the grounds, and then only behind a second gate encircling the manor. He was ambushed by a pack of the beasts, as I understand it."

"Do you know," said I, once the terrible revelation had set in, "that I was always a mite jealous of the fellow. Not only in my University days, but when last he stopped by our flat. I could not help but admire how active he remained whereas I had declined into an expendable cripple."

At the period in which this case occurred, Holmes and I were both friends and partners for just over sixteen years. During that time, I'd witnessed the gamut of his mercurial temper, yet never had I seen him so flushed with narrowly contained rage as he was in that moment. Tightening his grip on my hand, he began to speak in a deliberate tone.

"I regard myself as a moderately tolerant fellow, but I shall not stand for anyone referring to the most inestimably dear friend to ever bestow his loyalty on so unworthy a man, as anything so vulgar as an expendable cripple. Never utter those words again in my presence, Watson."

For the next several moments, we sat in companionable silence until Holmes finally deigned to speak to me again.

"My dear fellow, I wonder if you might be so good as to satiate my curiosity upon one puzzling matter?"

"Of course, if I can."

"In that cellar, I clearly saw them inject you with… heavens, with my own cocaine. For a man with my iron constitution, accustomed to the drug as I am, it should have proved a fatal dosage. How was it you were unaffected?"

I threw my head back in laughter, prompting Holmes to quirk an eyebrow at his lunatic friend.

"You've not been giving me an easy time of it lately," I explained, "what with the lack of interesting cases to keep you amused. As you were going at that cocaine bottle far too liberally for my tastes, rather than losing a decent fellow lodger - and half my rent - I took it upon myself to dilute your seven percent solution with sugar water some weeks ago. You, my friend, have been indulging in a three percent solution at worst, or at best, were in the thrall of a garden variety sugar induced attack of spryness."

"Admirably done, if I must admit," he sniffed.

"You were worried." I teased.

"I did no such thing. Logically, I had come to the conclusion you were out of harm, so why should I indulge in such frivolous emotion?"

I suppressed a smile at the man who had just shown me a great deal more of his heart than I ever imagined possible, confident that one day he might just lose his composure entirely, and in so doing, reveal to me the entirety of the vast depth of loyalty - perhaps even something akin to love - that pulsed through a heart as immense as his brain. If such an event ever did occur, I was left only to wonder what tragedy could ever stir such a reaction in Sherlock Holmes.

"Holmes?" said I after a short pause. "Your shoulder."

"What of it?"

"I believe I inadvertently shot you."

"Eh. Do not alarm yourself over much about the thing. It was a minor scratch. Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street - in whose humble surgery Lestrade was kind enough to transport us to after the country doctor initially patched us up - is of the opinion I shall live. The ridiculous fellow furthermore believes a holiday is in order, and I've no doubt you will find that advice agreeable."

"I was on the verge of suggesting it myself. You cannot possibly deny we both are sorely in need of an extended rest. After this nightmare, I've an inclination to remove myself as far from any other living soul, besides your humble self, of course, as is humanly possible. Perhaps the Cornish Peninsula - I hear it is quite deserted there and ideal for a retiring lifestyle. I certainly cannot foresee much excitement in so isolated an area. Besides," I continued "I seem to recall missing a deadline due to a most freakish accident involving an overturned ink bottle and several sheets of a most engaging account of that little problem concerning the Giant Rat of Sumatra. Someone wishing to make amends for the defilement might take it upon themselves to write up another story for me, by way of apology."

"Might they, now?"

"Indeed."

"Well, I suppose I can be influenced into trying my hand at your meretricious craft. I have always been rather fond of that case I kept notes on concerning Mr. James Dodd's unique predicament."

"Not that simple matter of the soldier who was thought to have contracted leprosy? My dear fellow, not only was that painfully obvious to the trained eye, I was with Mary at the time and did not even accompany you on the investigation, if you can even call it as much."

"Hmph. Yes, I am fully aware that was during the period in which you deserted me for a wife."

"Really now, Holmes!"

"Do you desire me to write up a case for you or not?"

"Yes, well, go ahead and use the affair of the blanched soldier. After all, I don't see how you could _possibly _botch that one."

* * *

**_~Fin~_**


End file.
